


Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 4

by Mozu



Category: Guild Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:24:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozu/pseuds/Mozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Guild Wars 2 novel in progress.</p><p>Apologies for the wonky formatting - you can read the whole thing, properly formatted, over at http://bearzusmash.wordpress.com/thorn/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 4

**THORN, A SYLVARI’S TALE – Chapter 4**

**S.E. OFSTEIN**

The last light of day stained the Shiverpeaks a deep crimson, and Mozu couldn't help but imagine them as the bloody teeth of some titanic horror, slowly emerging to devour the land. The mountains loomed above the valley—jagged, wild, grim and foreboding, and stretching north farther than the eye could see. As she scanned the horizon, she found it hard to believe that one of the elder dragons was rumored to be the size of a mountain chain, or perhaps she wished not to believe. Mozu shivered involuntarily beneath her heavy fur cloak and pondered what that would look like, and how one could even begin to fight such a thing.

A small collection of buildings sat alone in a verdant meadow below, next to a small, swift stream, and miles from the nearest homesteads. The smithy, tannery, and butchery were closed up tight, but light and noise spilled from the open doorway of the tavern. Distance, it would seem, didn’t discourage the patronage, and the place was filled to bursting with loud, raucous, inebriated norn.

Linebaugh received a warm and surprised welcome as he ambled through the doorway and hollered something unintelligible, although the place slowly fell silent as those same patrons regarded the small, blue sylvari who stood in the cavernous doorway. She kept her eyes firmly set on Linebaugh’s back as they made their way to a free spot at a long table, and Mozu climbed up onto the rough-hewn bench beside him.

Conversation around them soon resumed, although somewhat more subdued than before. Linebaugh gestured toward the bar, and soon two huge mugs of pale, bitter ale were set before them by a norn girl with fiery hair in braided pigtails. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, but still stood easily a head taller than Mozu.

“Thanks, lass.” Linebaugh slipped her a coin and winked. “Two o’ whatever ain’t burnt yet.”       

“Sure thing, Uncle Liney. Welcome home.” The girl gave him a quick peck on the cheek and made her way through the crowd toward the kitchen, but couldn’t resist a curious backward glance at the ranger’s tiny companion.

Mozu raised her voice over the din, “ _Uncle Liney?_ ”

“I helped Jorg build this place years ago.” He scanned the room with a bemused expression. “Family friends ever since. Actually, I knew him an’ his wife before then, but . . . anyway, ya get tha gist. Hey, ya might wanna slow down on that ‘till we get some food in front’a us.”

“Why? Are they going to run out?”

Linebaugh considered the question for a moment. “No, I reckon not. Bottom’s up.”

Mozu exchanged pleasantries with their neighbors as the surprisingly strong ale worked its magic, and Linebaugh greeted what seemed like everyone familiarly. He was jawing animatedly with a scar-faced man at the table behind them when a fat, older fellow who had been holding court in one corner of the tavern yelled in their direction.

He stroked a beard bound in large golden rings, and held up a hand adorned with jewels dramatically. “Spirits save us, that little flower can put it away!”    

The room quieted, and Linebaugh glanced at Mozu with a mischievous glint in his eye and quickly returned his attention to his beer. She chewed a bite of her half-finished lamb shank self-consciously and set her fork down as all eyes seemed to turn toward her.

“Linebaugh, my boy, wherever did you find this pretty little pet?”

 _Pet?_ Mozu fumed.

Linebaugh scratched at the back of his head. “Well, I—”

She leapt to her feet with a shocked expression and pointed at the obese troublemaker. “Gods! Where did you people find a talking dolyak?!”

The room erupted into laughter, the brief tension broken. “Oho! She’s a feisty thing! Well, I’ve been lacking a little salad in my diet . . .” the bejeweled norn winked outrageously.

“I wouldn’t,” Mozu quipped as she rested a hand upon her hip. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to eat something if you don’t know where it came from?” Her gaze fell to the scrollworked leather vest stretched across his enormous gut. “Then again, I suspect you’ve never said no to a meal in your life.”

The patrons hooted and hollered, and rained catcalls at both of them. Mozu blushed and sat quickly, keeping her eyes on her plate while the white-haired rascal guffawed mightily.

“Ah, well," he waved a hand dismissively, "I suspect she’s saving all her sweet nectar for some young stud anyway. Right, Linebaugh?”

It was Linebaugh’s turn to go a deep red, and he coughed. “Dun look at me," he grumbled, "I ain’t been young in near thirty years now.” The room chuckled at the pair’s embarrassment while the man in the corner beckoned them over with an impish grin.

“Now, now, miss, all in good fun. Come join old Olaf for a drink—on me, of course. You too, _Elder Linebaugh_.”

Linebaugh sighed heavily, groaning as he stood and looked around the room imploringly. “Kin someone lend me a hand? I seem ta have fergotten my walkin’ stick.”

Space was quickly made at Olaf’s table for the newcomers, and Linebaugh introduced Mozu.

“Olaf Gunnarsson, my girl, and very pleased to make your acquaintance. You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand as a proper gentleman would. Linebaugh, my boy, I reckon there’s a tale or two behind this little duo,” he pointed back and forth between the two of them.

Linebaugh drained his mug and squinted into it before setting it down. “Yup. I reckon.”

Olaf gestured grandly toward the barkeep. Mozu could sense the tension coming from Linebaugh, and quickly turned her attention back to Olaf.

“So . . . Mister Gunnarsson,” she inquired, “what is it you do?”

Olaf raised a bushy, white eyebrow and smiled. “Mister? That’s far too grand a title for this old sea-dog, miss.” 

“You’re a sailor?”

Linebaugh snorted derisively. “He was a pi . . . corsair.”

“ _Privateer_ , First Mate Linebaugh,” Olaf corrected.

Mozu looked to Linebaugh. “Privateer?”

“Fancy word fer legitimate pirate, commissioned by a government or king . . . or queen.”            

“And you were _first mate_?" An indigo flush crept into her cheeks.

“It means I was second in command ta this ol’ sot,” he scowled and jerked his head toward Olaf. "I dun wanna know what the hell you were thinkin'."

Mozu blinked at Olaf in disbelief, and he inclined his head toward her. “Whitebeard, as I was known in those days, miss. Scourge of pirates, bandits and risen alike upon the waves of the Sea of Sorrows.” He thumped his chest with one fist.

“Whitebeard tha Drunk, as he was known aboard ship,” Linebaugh drawled, “scourge o' our rum an' ale supplies. Yer lucky we didn’t keel-haul yer ass eight times over.” He reached over and poked Olaf‘s gut.

Olaf just laughed and sighed, lacing his fingers together over his prodigious stomach as he leaned back in his chair at the end of the table. “Well, that was a long time ago. These days I work the forge here. Could never get the hang of ship life with only one leg.”

It was Mozu’s turn to raise an eyebrow, and she peeked below the table. Olaf hitched up a pant leg to reveal a bronze-capped wooden peg below one knee. “I forgot to mention that I’m one-eighth sylvari myself.”

Another round of drinks arrived to a wave of laughter and Olaf took a heroic pull from his mug, then set it down gently.

“Well, then, First Mate, it seems like an age since I’ve seen you last. How about that tale?” He winked at Mozu again.

“First, take yer _First Mates_ an’ cram ‘em with a yardarm. Second, it ain’t been more’n a year, an’ third . . . mebbe Mozu’s got a tale fer us ta hear instead.”

She choked on her beer and hacked for a few moments. “Me?"

The whole table peered at her expectantly. Olaf favored Mozu with a kindly smile and nodded encouragingly.

“I’m not really much for storytelling. I—“ Linebaugh patted her gently on the thigh and nodded almost imperceptibly as he raised his mug to his lips.

Mozu felt a flush coming to her cheeks again as she looked around the table once more. Grasping desperately for her own mug, she took a few good swallows and tried to remember the seemingly endless string of stories and anecdotes that Linebaugh had told on their many nights around a campfire.

As she opened her mouth, Mozu suddenly realized that the entire room has grown quiet again. A bead of sweat ran down the small of her back as she cleared her throat and raised her voice to address the entire tavern.

“I won’t bore you with the details of how I’d gotten there,” she began, “but there I was—at the edge of a deep and mysterious wood, naked as the day I’d fallen out of the Tree—“

“Details! Details!” called a huge, blonde norn with an elaborately braided beard from across the room. The dour woman at his side slapped him on the arm, and he tucked his chin into his chest, still chortling.

The laughter subsided, and Mozu continued, “So there I was, in the middle of a moonless night at a small farmstead, um, _borrowing_ a few things,” she looked around the room with feigned innocence, “when there’s a sudden bright light.”      

Mozu took another pull from her mug. “A human farmer standing there in his nightcap and long johns—pitchfork in one hand, lantern in the other, mouth hanging open—well, I froze, naturally. He’s staring at me, I’m staring back at him, and neither of us has any idea what to make of the other.” She took another drink, and dared a glance at Linebaugh, who was giggling to himself.

“And then?” he asked mirthfully and a little too loudly.

“And then I did the only thing I could think to do. I dropped the sack, leapt up on the nearest hay bale,” Mozu sprang onto the bench and stood over the table, raised her hands above her head, twisted into claws, her teeth bared ferociously, “and went _RAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWRRRRRRG!_ ”

The taproom burst into laughter again, but she continued still.

“The poor man’s eyes just about flew out of his head, and,” she put her tongue between her lips and blew a long, loud, wet raspberry, “he shits himself. Spectacularly. Drops the pitchfork and the lantern and goes running for the house all bowlegged,” she pantomimed, ”yelling for his wife and the six gods above, and _bam!_ , slams the door behind him.”

Mozu lowered herself to sit on the bench again and took a casual swig from her mug, then looked around as if suddenly noticing the crowd for the first time.

“Well, I put the fire out, stuffed the sack full up—even made a trip down to his root cellar—and continued on my merry way leaving them to pray for salvation,” she shrugged and explained in a deadpan.

Olaf, red faced and chuckling, reached across the table to pat her on the hand. As the laughter and mug pounding subsided again, Linebaugh held up his hands, then slowly lowered one to rest it upon Mozu’s shoulder.

“Humble beginnin’s, aye, but lest ya think our new friend from tha far south is all _bark_ . . . an’ no bite, I’ll spin ya another yarn about young Mozu here.”

“That was awful,” Olaf groaned.

Linebaugh ignored him, trying to stifle a snicker. He lowered his voice, and the room fell to a hush.

“I got a tale fer ya, but it’s a long one.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully, “Maybe not good fer tonight, come ta think o’ it”

A ripple of unrest ran through the room, and Linebaugh held up his hands placatingly. While his face gave nothing away, Mozu could see the familiar sparkle in his eye as he scanned the crowd.

“Alright, alright, no need ta get all riled up. I must say, though, my throat seems ta be getting’ a bit dry.” A fresh mug found his hand as if by magic, and the patrons settled in for a saga. Linebaugh cleared his throat.

“Not long ago we were ambushed by a centaur warband—far from home, reavin’ an’ killin’ their way across tha north. Ol’ Linebaugh ran into one’a them beasts that even he couldn’t handle—tha chief o’ them headhunters. Made tha great Hákon Stonehead over yonder look like a swaddlin’ babe.”

“Stone _fist_!” yelled the huge, blonde warrior as he slammed one slablike hand down on the table, making the crockery leap. The man’s dour wife couldn’t help but laugh as she patted his arm comfortingly.

“Oh,” Linebaugh said with some surprise, “my mistake, blockhead.” He took a long pull from his mug while the room waited, rapt.

“But ta get there,” Linebaugh continued, “we gotta go back even further. Let me tell ya tha tale, lasses an’ lads, o’ _Mozu tha Butcher_.”

Mozu choked on her beer again and shot Linebaugh an incredulous look which he completely ignored. She gazed around the room. Even Olaf and the bar staff seemed to hang on Linebaugh’s every word. Mozu wished that she could just slink from the table and creep away into the night.

_Butcher?_

“Ambushed by centaur? How’d you manage that, Liney?” hooted a tall, smirking figure who was leaning against the bar.

“Well, Ioren,” Linebaugh explained loudly as he stood and moved to stand near the blazing hearth despite the nearly stifling heat, “I was busy thinkin’ about yer wife at tha time, if ya catch my meanin’.” He raised his mug toward the man in mock salute, and made the room wait once again as he drained it and set it aside.

“In tha deepest forests o’ southern Kryta,” he began in low tones, “tha trees grow so dense ya kin hardly see the sky for tha boughs overhead, an’ silence hangs heavy in them age-old woods  . . .”

 

Hours later, Mozu bid a drunken farewell to her newfound friends, and they to her. A bright and swollen moon illuminated her and Linebaugh’s path as they wended their way along the many miles toward home.

_Home. What a strange and wonderful thing._

Her thoughts turned to the Grove—her memories vague and hazy at best—and wondered what it would be like to live there. Mozu may have been of the Grove, but the pictures in her mind were of a distant, alien place. She couldn’t begin to imagine a gatheringthere like the one she’d been a guest to this night with its boisterous, funny, and kind cast of characters, and she certainly couldn’t imagine her life without Linebaugh in it.

He glanced back at her as they walked. “What’s on yer mind, lookin’ all serious-like?”

“What was all that about tonight?” Mozu finally mustered the courage to ask.

“Eh? Which bit?”

“Well, the whole thing, I suppose, but specifically the ‘butcher’ bit.”

Linebaugh slowed his pace and waited for Mozu to catch up, then put an arm around her shoulder and hugged her close as they walked.

“Only things a norn loves better’n a good insult or a good joke when he's drinkin' is a tale o’ heroism. Real concerned about their _legend_ an’ whathaveya, an’ they always love hearin' about tha legends an’ tales o' others. Hopefully,” he gave her shoulder a squeeze, “ye’ll be neighbors with these folk fer a good, long time.

“Now,” he held up a finger, ”ya did just fine –better’n fine—shuttin’ Olaf up, an’ ya entertained folks with yer farmer story, but I figgered a little, um, somethin’ extra ta get them folks’ blood runnin’, an’ make tha name ‘Mozu’ stick in their minds couldn’t hurt.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Ye’ll notice I didn’t really embellish all _that_ much.”

Mozu rested her head against Linebaugh’s chest as they walked. “It certainly sounded less awful coming from you than it all was in reality.”

“That’s how stories are, lass. We tend ta leave out tha ugliness in our lives when tellin’ it ta other folks.”

 “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Aren’t you concerned with _your_ legend?”

Linebaugh’s voice rumbled deep in his chest after a long silence, “I stopped givin’ a shit about my legend the day tha day a stranger brought my daughter’s corpse back ta our homestead. What I do now, I do fer Tyria, an’ fer all tha folk who should never live ta see their own children die before ‘em. My legend lies beneath an ol’ gnarled apple tree in m—our yard, an’ somewhere beneath tha waves in tha Sea o’ Sorrows.”

Mozu hugged his arm and was quiet for a time.

“What _is_ it that you actually do?” she finally asked, unable to stem the tide of her curiosity.

His shaggy head shook once. “Not here,” he murmured, pointing toward the bleak and ghostly Shiverpeaks. “Soon we’ll have a long talk about it.”

Stars winked overhead and wispy clouds flitted across the moon as they walked along. Linebaugh suddenly stopped and turned to face her with a smile, holding her at arm’s length. “I’m glad I met ya, Mozu.”

“What’s all this now?” She blushed and looked away. He simply shrugged.

“Nothin’. I just wanted ta say it.”

“I’m . . . very glad we met, as well,” she said into his chest as she wrapped her arms around him.

They remained like that, just for a moment—each wrapped in the embrace of another living, breathing, caring soul; wrapped in their friendship and the even deeper bond between them; each filling a huge, yawning void in the other’s life. They both treasured that moment—quiet and private, with only the stars and the wind and the mountains to witness something profound, yet ephemeral.

“Come on, lass,” Linebaugh rubbed her back gently. “We got a long way to go still, an’ I’m drunker’n hell.”

Mozu wiped her eyes with the back of a hand as Linebaugh turned and strode onward. With his broad back and bobbing ponytail in front of her, and the sounds of merryment still audible in the distance behind them, she felt a warmth and contentment deep within that she’d never experienced before. She took a deep breath and peered up into the night sky, watching as the chill winds carried her steaming breath away in gentle wisps before hurrying to catch up with Linebaugh.

               

“Here.” Linebaugh tossed the weapons at Mozu's feet as she rose from her bedroll. The massive, curved greatsword glinted dully up at her, and next to it lay a bow of ash and horn, wrapped in hide and bladed along the outer edge of its limbs.

                Nearly a week had passed since their fight against the centaur band, and Mozu was still getting her feet back under her. Even Linebaugh seemed to move at a much slower pace than she was used to seeing.

“One’a them centaurs busted that bow ya took from that bandit kid, but that thing was an’ ol’ piece’a shit, anyway. Ye’ll hafta get used ta this new one—draw weight’s definitely higher. We’ll getcha somethin’ better when we get back ta civilization, but it’ll do fer now.”

Mozu gulped nervously as she stared at the huge blade before her.

“Take it. It’s yers now. It ain’t pretty, but it’s good steel.”

She reached down and lifted the sword with a grunt, holding it out before her. Her arms shook from the effort, and she wondered how she’d ever swung the thing in combat.

“It’s . . . really heavy.”

“Good fer shearin’ through bone an’ armor,” Linebaugh nodded, then smirked, “or choppin’ the legs off an’ ass.”

Mozu set the greatsword against a tree and rubbed her palms on her trousers. Linebaugh stepped over and took her chin in his hand, turning her head toward the light.

“Looks like yer healin’ up well. Any lingerin’ effects?”

“Just a little dizziness every now and again. My ribs hurt like hell, though, and my legs feel like jelly half the time.”

Linebaugh scowled briefly. “We’ll spend another week here—get you fit as a fiddle, then we’ll move on.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” her lip began to tremble.

He waved his hands wildly, “No, lass, no. Let’s not go doin’ this again. Yer wounds gotta heal, otherwise ye’ll just make 'em worse, an’ trust me, I’ll be just as happy not ta carry a pack fer another week after havin’ this shoulder dislocated an’ all.”

Mozu nodded, and he clapped her on the arm. “Once yer feelin’ a bit better, I’ll show ya a trick or two with that thing,” he gestured at the brutish sword. She nodded again, and an awkward silence fell over the camp.

Linebaugh cleared his throat, “Yer, ah . . . are ya okay with what happened back there?”

She boggled at him, “Okay? With nearly dying?”

He waved his hands again. “No, I mean . . . the killin’ part . . .” he trailed off.

Mozu reached down to grasp the bow. She hauled on the string to sight down an imaginary arrow. Nodding, satisfied, she picked up her quiver—now packed with a mix of human- and centaur-made arrows, she noticed—and headed from the camp.

“I’ll go see about dinner,” Mozu called over her shoulder. Boy shot Linebaugh a questioning look. He nodded, and the lion padded silently into the underbrush after her.

 

Two weeks later, they arrived at Linebaugh’s homestead. They had passed through an idyllic, pastoral valley and up into the foothills of the Shiverpeaks at its northern end. The mountains—still  quite some distance away, and mottled in blacks, whites, and greys with the bright afternoon sun glinting off of their snowy peaks—towered above the foothills and the valley below.

Oaks and birches had given way to maples and lush, majestic pines as they traveled. The first hints of reds and golds were just beginning to appear on the tree-lined path to the homestead, for while the days had remained comfortably warm, the nights had already turned cool and crisp this far north.

                Linebaugh stopped and took in the view with a contented sigh as he rested a hand on Mozu’s shoulder. "Hildur loved this time o' year—fall an' winter festivals'll get goin' soon enough, an’ we made it in time ta see tha colors change, not ta mention apple season."

The house was built into the side of a rocky hill, and three tall stone chimneys peeked from the summit. A long row of tiny windows spanned the top of the front wall, which was built of thick, dark timbers, and a heavy iron-bound door lay in the wall’s center, hung with a wreath of dried wildflowers.

Mozu loved the place instantly—the feeling of tranquility and the view; the fresh, cool air coming from the mountains; the chorus of birdsong; and somewhere nearby, the sounds of a gently rolling brook.

Boy’s mane ruffled in the breeze as he sniffed at the air as if searching for something. He froze in place as a guttural roar reached them from somewhere beyond the house. Linebaugh dropped his pack and weapons and strode forward, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"WELL? COME ON OUT," he bellowed into the woods.

Moments passed in anxious silence, and Mozu found herself slowly creeping over to take shelter behind him. Soon, a huge and heavily scarred brown bear loped from the trees to stand upon its hind legs. It roared defiantly at the norn and his lion.

"YA WANT A PIECE'A THIS? COME GET SOME," Linebaugh roared back, and charged at the bear empty-handed. Mozu held a hand to her mouth in horror while Boy settled down on the grass, his piercing green eyes taking in the scene.

The savage beast took up the challenge and barreled toward Linebaugh like some implacable juggernaut. The two came together with a bone-rattling crash that seemed to shake the very forest around them, and they went down in a great tumble. Mozu scrambled for her bow, wondering why the hell Boy just sat there looking contented— _stupid cat!_ —when the growling and snarling suddenly turned to laughter.

The huge bear was trying valiantly to gnaw on Linebaugh's head even as the norn wrapped his massive arms around the bear's neck and hauled him over. They fell again with a thud and rolled around the yard in a playful battle as Mozu stood there, mouth agape.

"I give! I give! Get off, ya big oaf! Gods be damned if ya don’t slobber worse'n my old man in his dotage."

Linebaugh shoved the huge animalaway as he wiped an impressive amount of drool from his face and gave the monster, now rolling around on the grass and grunting happily, a thumping pat and a scratch on the belly. He grinned.

"Mozu, meet Bear. Bear, Mozu."

The tattered and battle-worn bear sniffed the air in her direction briefly, and turned his attention back to chewing gently upon one of Linebaugh's hands.

"Hello, uh, Bear," she replied nervously.

Extricating his hand from ursine jaws, Linebaugh wiped it on his jerkin before reaching into a pouch slung at his side to retrieve a large brass key.

“C’mon. Place’ll need a good dustin’ an’ airin’ out. Prolly best ta get a fire goin’ afore too long, too.”

With an echoing snap, he turned the key in the reinforced lock, then beckoned Mozu over to show her a pair of hidden levers cleverly disguised in the surprisingly ornate engraved doorframe.

“Aaaaand, open.” Linebaugh gave the doors a gentle push with his fingertips, and they swung open noiselessly.

Mozu felt as if she’d suddenly walked into a giant’s home. Everything seemed so huge and ungainly. Two thirds of the interior stood open, a single room containing a massive stone hearth, a table and chairs—so large that she would have to quite literally climb onto them—two monolithic wardrobes, and a four-poster bed that could fit a dozen sylvari comfortably. Bookshelves lined the far wall, and the colorful spines of the books provided a much-needed splash of color in the otherwise subdued room.

Boy slipped through the doorway behind them and immediately settled himself upon the furs piled on the bed. Mozu glanced back out into the yard where Bear sniffed curiously at their packs. He stopped suddenly and stared in her direction, as if fully aware of being watched. Mozu looked away quickly and cast her eyes around the room again.

“This, ah, this’ll be yer room. Feel free ta . . . do whatever with it.”

Linebaugh opened a door in the wall that divided the front of the house in two and ushered her inside. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and motes danced wildly in the dim light from the cloudy windows above. Mozu suddenly felt that same strange feeling she’d had when she had entered those ancient woods months before—a feeling that she was disturbing some hallowed ground and old memories best left alone.

Another wardrobe and somewhat smaller bed stood against one wall, along with an equally downscaled hearth that sat near the center of the room. More bookshelves lined the walls, and a mix of long-neglected weapons and shabby, uncared-for trophy heads hung scattered upon the walls.

Mozu made a slow circuit of the room, hesitant to touch or disturb anything. When she glanced toward the doorway, she could see the pain etched deeply into Linebaugh’s face as he stood there, motionless.

She lowered herself gently onto the bed, hoping to avoid stirring up a huge cloud of dust. “How long has it been since you’ve seen this room?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Linebaugh cleared his throat a few times before he found his own voice. “Years. ‘Lotta years.”

Hesitantly, he, too, entered the room and made his way around, stopping to look at something ever so often.

“Are you really sure about this, Linebaugh?”

His head bobbed in acknowledgement as he knelt before a wooden chest and rooted around inside, chuckling as he found what he was seeking. He turned and held in his huge hands a small, stuffed, brown corduroy bear with button eyes.

“When I left on a long hunt an’ came back with Bear in tow fer tha first time, Siri went _on_ and _on_ about how she wanted a bear of her own, and how it was no fair that _I_ got to have one and _she_ didn’t. Drove us both nuts, so Hildur sewed this for her.”

“He’s a fine bear.”

“Aye, he is at that.”

“L—“

“It’ll be good to have a bit o’ life an’ laughter around here again. This room’s been closed fer too long, so, please, no more askin’ about it. It’s yer room.”

He looked down at the toy in his hands and his voice quivered slightly, “An’ yer bear, I suppose.” He held the stuffed toy out to Mozu who took it with all the grace and seriousness that one might receive a knighthood with.

Standing quickly, Linebaugh clapped his hands together, the loud noise shocking in the otherwise heavy silence. “Right! We got a lotta work ta do before nightfall, so let’s get crackin’.”

 

They spent the rest of the day sweeping and clearing out the dust as best they could while Boy and Bear chased one another around the yard before eventually disappearing into the forest together.

Linebaugh dragged a pair of chairs out by the fire pit after a modest dinner, and they sat and watched the evening turned into night as they sipped at _a little somethin’ special_ as Linebaugh called it.

“What _is_ this?” Mozu gasped as she tasted the deep golden brew for the first time.

“Mead. It’s made from honey. Ya kin find it just about anywhere, but it tends ta be pretty crap, if ya ask me.”

“This is amazing.”

“Thanks,” he smiled and his eyes sparkled.

“Wait, did you make this?”

Liinebaugh nodded. “There’s a feller who lives down in the valley who keeps bees somewhere secret. I did ‘im a favor once, an’ he repaid in kind with about fifty pounds o’ the best honey I ever tasted. No idea what them bees’re feedin’ on, but kudos to ‘em. Got the yeasts from—“ he shot her a sideways glance and chuckled. “Well, that’s a trade secret. I like ta break out a bottle every now an’ again fer special occasions. Just like this one.” He raised his earthenware cup to her and they clinked glasses.

“C’mon, I got somethin’ else ta show ya.” He gestured at the mountaintops peeking above the trees with his glass, “This view ain’t the main reason I chose this place ta build a home.”

He retrieved a pair of fluffy cotton towels from the house and led Mozu off into the darkness of the woods near the house. After a short, stumbling walk, she gasped again as they entered a small moonlit rocky clearing. A blue-green pool of water steamed in the chill night air. She knelt and dipped her hand into the water, and jerked it back with wide eyes.

“Natural hot spring. If folks down in tha valley knew about this, they’d be chargin’ up the foothills with pitchforks an’ torches,” he laughed as he sat upon a flat rock and began to remove his boots. “Dun worry, I ain’t gonna peek if ya wanna get i—”

A naked Mozu streaked past him and leapt into the water with a whoop and a splash.

“Guess some folk never heard o’ modesty . . .” he mumbled to himself.

“This may just be the best thing ever,” Mozu exclaimed with delight.

 

As the moon rose high overhead, they made their way back to their chairs by the dying fire, and Linebaugh poured another measure of mead for them as Mozu rekindled the blaze. She climbed up onto her chair and sat with her back against a huge throw pillow, cross-legged and sleepy.

 “So, tomorrow,” he yawned, “I’m gonna take Bear an’ head down inta tha valley ta get food an’ supplies—or at least put in an order fer some—if ya don’t mind me leavin’ ya in charge o’ cleanin’ an’ firewood.”

“Mmm,” Mozu hummed as she sipped at her mead. “Supplies?”

He nodded, “There’ll be a big ta-do fer tha Harvest Festival soon, an’ maybe a month or so after that we’ll head up. We got a lotta trainin’ afore that, though.” Linebaugh gestured at the mountains again and took a sip of mead.

“Up?” her gaze followed his and she blinked.

“It’s hard, hard land up there.”

“. . . for how long?”

“Ah, prolly a few weeks, mebbe a month. Dun worry about it right now, though. Get settled in, get a few good days o’ real rest, then we’ll get ta turnin’ ya hard as nails.” He winked and took another sip. “Getcha workin’ together with them animals, too.”

“Sounds like fun?”

“Inna couple’a days I’ll take ya down ta meet some folks.”

“Oh?” Mozu closed her heavy eyelids.

“Norn tend not ta gather in places ta live, ‘side from places like Hoelbrak, but a few folk live down near the center o’ tha valley. They got what’d almost pass as a village in some parts. Nothin’ too excitin’ . . . ‘cept the tavern.”

“Tavern?” Mozu cracked one eye.

“I knew that’d wake ya up. Aye, got a drinkin’ hall down there—folks come from miles an’ miles around ta gather. It’s pretty unheard o’ inna lot o’ other parts o’ tha north, but it makes for a real good community o’ folks in tha valley. Helpin’ each other out when the weather turns real bad, or . . .”

“Or?”

“Or somethin’ comes down from tha mountains that a man wouldn’t want ta face alone.”

“. . . oh.”

“Yeah.”

“The world is really going to . . . how do you say it? ‘Hell in a handbasket’?” Mozu regretted her words instantly. Linebaugh’s face hardened as he stared into the flames. The orange glow danced, reflected in his eyes, and she felt a sudden chill.

“Yeah, lass. Yeah, it is. But ain’t always gonna be like this. Ye’ll see.” He turned to face her, and a shiver ran down her back.

_So that’s what resolve looks like. Terrifying._

Slowly, his countenance softened, and he smiled. “And it ain’t _all_ bad, lass. Cheers.”

They raised their glasses in a toast again, and leaned back in their chairs to enjoy the warmth of the fire, the warmth of companionship, and the blanket of stars that dotted the sky above.

 

 


End file.
